Tyler
Wimbledon End of Tournament Players Dinner
The car pulled up outside the Grosvenor, all lit up like the fucking Oscars.
I climbed out after Ted, buttoning my custom Armani suit jacket as the humid London air hit me.
Normally, I’d have spent the car ride back-loading enough Dutch courage to make the room tilt, showing up with a crooked tie and a wandering eye just to drown out the noise of not being the one holding the trophy.
Tonight, I was dangerously sober.
I knew exactly who to thank for that.
A few heads turned as I made my way the through the large oak doors, the usual mix of sponsors, models, agents, players. Normally by now I’d have scoped the crowd for something blonde and busty. But not tonight. Tonight, I only wanted to see one person.
I’d shaved, gotten a haircut, even dry-cleaned the tux. No fines this week. No scandals. Not even a hangover. Just me, walking into the post-Wimbledon players’ dinner like I actually deserved my spot here.
Three weeks ago, I’d been the hothead with a limp and a reputation that read like a court summons. Now, I’d made the semis, the sponsors were sniffing back around, and I had a full physio team lined up. And for once, I hadn’t self-destructed the minute things got good.
That change was all her.
I stepped into the ballroom where I was met by warm lighting, champagne towers, and the low murmur of the live band.
I scanned the room automatically clocking the usuals: CEOs, officials, wives, a few influencer girlfriends pretending not to be posing.
I headed toward the bar because my hands were already itching, and that’s when I saw her. I swear to God, time stood still.
Navy satin, clinging and fluid all at once.
The low back caught the light and made my jaw ache.
Her hair spilled in waves over one bare shoulder, glossy under the chandelier light.
She didn’t just look jaw droppingly beautiful, she looked untouchable and, fuck, I wanted to touch her more than I’d ever wanted anything.
I’d only ever seen her in leggings, polo shirts, and her official lanyard, and that was enough to make me ache. This was some kind of punishment.
Next to her stood another knockout. Petite, blonde, classy looking woman.
I recognized her from the circuit, she was Jordan’s fiancée—Kate, maybe?
Pretty sure she just had a baby and still looked like she could walk a runway.
No wonder he’d locked that down. Dude was punching, and winning but tonight every instinct I had was tuned to Orla.
She must’ve felt me staring because her eyes flicked over in my direction. She raised one brow and gave me this nervous little smile. A rose tinted flush crept up her neck before she forced it down with a slow sip of wine, like she’d just remembered she wasn’t supposed to look at me that way.
Game over. I couldn’t help but smile back despite my mouth being as dry as sandpaper. I needed a drink, stat and only a double bourbon would do.
I headed to the other side of the bar to order, trying not to show I couldn’t stop staring at her when I felt a hand clap my shoulder.
“Reed, mate. How are you?”
I turned, grinning. “Jordan Taylor, what’s up, man. Congrats. You earned this.” We pulled into a quick bro hug.
“Cheers, mate. Hell of a match you gave me. How’s the leg holding up?”
“Not bad. Got some big plans for it. Hoping to come back and kick your ass in New York.”
He laughed, flashing his signature golden boy grin. “I’ll look forward to that, rookie. But rehab that thing proper. Don’t cut corners.”
I nodded in agreement before hesitating, then asked, “How do you do it, man? Not the wins. The rest of it. How do you not spiral when shit gets heavy?”
Jordan looked past me toward the bar, his brows furrowing. “I didn’t always handle it well. I’ve burned through my fair share of breakdowns. But when someone believes in you, even when you don’t? It changes everything.”
His gaze softened on Kate with a look of pure adoration. “She grounds me. Reminds me who the hell I am when I forget.”
I followed his line of sight and my eyes landed on Orla. She was standing next to Kate, her perfectly manicured fingertips fiddling with her wine glass.
Jordan caught the direction of my stare. “You got someone like that?”
“Not exactly. It’s… complicated”.
“Then don’t fuck it up before you do.” He clapped my shoulder again. “Trust me, I almost did.”
He walked off to wrap his arms around Kate, and the way she leaned into him made something twinge inside me.
I downed the rest of my bourbon, squared my shoulders, and made my way toward Orla.
Kate and Jordan slinked away to find their table so she was alone now, sipping her wine like she had all the time in the world.
“You clean up alright, Sheehan.”
She smiled sweetly before her eyes flicked down to my bare cuffs. She reached out, tugging lightly at one sleeve. “Tennis pro can’t even manage cufflinks?”
I grinned. “Couldn’t find any. Guess I’m hopeless.”
Her eyes landed to my mouth for half a moment before letting out a warm laugh, and it felt like the room fell away.
I leaned closer, voice dropping. “You can mock my cuffs all you want. Doesn’t change the fact you look devastatingly beautiful tonight.”
Her smile faltered, just slightly, her chest rising as though she needed to steady herself before she rolled her eyes, attempting to hide the way her cheeks had flushed pink.
Fuck, she was beautiful.
“Can I get you another drink?” I asked, already knowing I’d do anything just to keep her there.
“I probably don’t need more.” She tilted slightly on her strappy heels that made her legs look divine “I might be half a glass from dancing on the table.”
I laughed. “Alright, maybe some fresh air, then? Come on.”
She nodded and followed me out to the terrace. It was quieter there, strung with lights and the distant noise of traffic beyond the gates. The night air was warm, faintly sweetened by jasmine from the garden below.
She leaned against the railing, breathing deeply and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a small, nervous tell I’d started to recognize.
“So? Where’s your head at this week, Tyler? You must be feeling good.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I am, actually. For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel like something clicked.” I looked over at her. “And I owe a lot of that to you.”
She glanced up, surprised. “I just massaged your leg and yelled at you a bit.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, but I wanted to get better. Because of you.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped at the compliment, then slowly lifted back to mine.
I stepped closer, reaching out, my fingertips brushing her toned arm that had a delicate sheen this evening. “Orla.”
She didn’t move.
“Tyler…” she whispered, but it wasn’t a warning.
It sounded more like was a plea she didn’t know how to finish.
I raised a hand to her chin, gently tilting her face to mine.
Her deep hazel eyes shimmered under the overhead string lights, the golden hues highlighting every perfect feature of her face.
Her breath caught as I dipped my head and found her lips softly with mine.
I kissed her slowly. I wasn’t trying to take anything from her, I was offering it. Everything. Whatever the hell this was between us.
I hadn’t planned on doing this. I knew what we’d agreed but I couldn’t keep away from her. She lived in my head constantly and I had to let her know what she meant to me. She didn’t pull away. Not right away. For a moment I thought I had her.
“Tyler…” she whispered, stepping back. “We can’t.”
I blinked. “What?”
She shook her head. The look in her eyes almost devastated me. “I said I’d keep things professional. We’re going on tour together. I can’t blur that line. Not with you.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. She didn’t wait. Just turned and slipped back through the terrace doors like she hadn’t just shattered me.
I turned and gripped the railing, knuckles whitening.
“Fuuuuck,” I hissed. Too much. Too soon. You blew it, Reed. You always fucking do.
I should’ve waited. Should’ve played it cool. But I couldn’t. Not with her. I’d wanted that kiss so bad it drowned out common sense, drowned out every warning bell.
Now, she was walking away, and all I could taste was the truth I didn’t want to admit. She had me. Completely.
I dragged both hands down my face, my chest aching from the weight of what just happened.
I drew a steadying breath. Yeah. Fine. Professional. I’d play her game.
But fuck me, if this didn’t feel like the hardest loss of the tournament. By the end of the tour, Orla Sheehan was going to change her mind, even if it killed me.